


Fireproof

by nightstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8.23 Coda, Angst, M/M, top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightstiel/pseuds/nightstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This, he thinks as he tries to peel off the etiquette on the bottle like flaying skin, should be getting easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireproof

_This,_ he thinks as he tries to peel off the etiquette on the bottle like flaying skin, _should be getting easier._ The counter is sticky with imprints of thousands of liquors; you can never clean it after it has served in a bar for some time, not completely, the stool is rickety and Cas almost falls over at one point and he laughs at him but puts a hand on his shoulder; it steadies him, lingers but Cas doesn’t mind, just tilts his head and looks at him fondly, as if Dean is a good person. It’s hard to let go of that piece of bone and meat clad in a tan trenchcoat and he almost doesn’t.

Things always have been getting easier. The first time he took a headshot at a monster at the age of ten, maybe eleven, the shotgun was probably half his weight and he fumbled for the trigger and he did notice the fear that flashed in the inhuman eyes; a spark of compassion, maybe, _maybe we can save them_ , swept away with the smoke escaping from the barrel. From then it was almost automatic. Load, shoot, kill. It was always getting easier, except for hangovers. They were always a bitch, always will be. He tells that to Cas. _“We should get hammered, Cas. Get you to sing karaoke in just your coat.”_

_“I’ll take you up on your offer next time.”_

But Cas leaving time and time again always has him on his hands and knees, gasping for air, and each time he gets closer to the ground. When his belly touches the dirt, he’ll roll over and won’t have to try anymore. Won’t have to wait anymore but he’s like this goddamn bird, sharpening his beak on the mountain at the end of the galaxy. Eventually the mountain will wear down but it’s no comfort.

And Dean’s not so sure this mountain will ever relent. Probably not, the Winchester luck. This one time the world won’t end.

“Why do you always come back, Cas?” He doesn’t mean to say it, but he does, angry, words spilling like vinegar. It’s the worst part. He waits. He prays, wringing his hands in the darkness or hiding his face behind them, murmuring words he’s ashamed to think. And eventually, he wishes Cas back.

Dean thinks maybe if he stopped praying Cas would stop coming back and they could go out with a bang, let it out of his system; pull the _our last night on Earth. Might as well have fun_ line on him at last and put some sprain on baby’s springs, then walk away – watch Cas walk away – and move on.

“Dean, I—“ Cas anchors him back with his gaze and he doesn’t even want to look away. “I never want to leave,” he says, in the smallest of voices and Dean knocks over his empty bottle as he gets up, hands fisting into Castiel’s lapels.

“It’s not good enough,” he hisses before he stumbles forward, pressing his forehead against Castiel’s and the angel’s hands are on his neck, holding back his tears. “It’s not _fucking_ enough.”

It’s a mess from now on, really, Cas whispering his name like it’s the only thing keeping Dean in one piece, Dean half-dragging, half-walking Cas to the car; Cas slithering out of his trenchoat with his back pressed flat to the seat, unknotting his tie with one hand while Dean watches. His breaths are shallow but the glass is cool against the back of his head. He wants to run; he wants to lunge forward and kiss that stupid mouth just once. It’s Cas who tugs at his shirt and beckons him down. He’s a terrible kisser – he misses Dean’s mouth for the first time and kisses just the corner of it, terrified, eyes wide open. Dean takes his hand and presses it against his cheek; he leans forward and shows Cas how to do it right, how to make your lips soft and inviting, how to open them up and lose yourself in it, tugging with teeth at the bottom lip, and just how much tongue is _not too much_ but Castiel’s fingers are still shivering under his palm; but he kisses back with ferocity; it’s wet and it’s sloppy and Dean is grinding his hips down before he realizes. He nips at Castiel’s bruised mouth, almost as if trying to heal it and Cas quips back, almost aggressive in his eagerness.

“This is so good, Dean,” he breathes out, surprise clear in his voice.

“I can make it even better,” Dean purrs and he kisses Cas’ cheek before sliding away, reaching to the front seat. “I’m gonna put on some tunes.” He picks the first tape and feeds it into the recorder—why _does he_ have a Scorpions tape? But it’s good enough. “This is what teenagers do. Make out in the car to some music.”

“Oh.” Cas starts humming the song into the kiss after the first chorus.

Soon it becomes to hot, too childish to just grind against each other through their pants, fabric scraping at their cocks, achingly hard. They lose their shirts first and barely slip out of their pants, Cas flipping over eagerly under Dean’s gentle touches, soft tugs in the right direction to get him on all fours. There are beads of sweat on Castiel’s neck and he’s breathing in hot, short puffs, hips rolling as he waits. Dean takes a deep breath – _it’s more difficult every time –_ and bends down, pressing kisses between his shoulder blades as he works him open, slow, one finger at a time. Cas makes soft, keening noises, small huffs through his nose as he falls forward on his elbows and it drives Dean crazy, two of his fingers flexing through that slick heat, his cock leaking against Castiel’s thigh; he holds back his orgasm, teeth gritting as he holds on to Cas’ waist with his free hand.

He removes his fingers and pushes in the head of his cock when Cas starts making little impatient noises, growling something in Enochian under his breath—and Cas is tight and hot around him and he relishes the pull and stretch of taut muscle, Castiel’s back tightening and then relaxing under his palm as he bottoms out. He leans over again and rocks his hips with his forehead on Cas’ shoulder, cradling him in his favourite place on earth, his home, his soul and his flesh. It’s where he can breathe _“Yeah, Cas, I’m gonna make it so fuckin’ good for you,”_ into his skin, trade it for _“Oh. Oh, oh, Dean,”_ mulled over in Castiel’s lips as he screws his eyes shut, his hips pushing back to get Dean in further, deeper, _“Do that, oh, again, please. Dean. Again.”_

“Cas. Cas.” He can’t stop saying his name. A dumb habit he picked up from the angel, constantly chanting his own name like he gets off on that as well. “Cas. Love this, love you, okay? Cas,” and he wrenches out a sob from Cas between the slap of flesh on flesh, plowing balls-deep, sweat pooling at every point of contact. “You okay?” He slows down, biting down on his lower lip.

“I don’t know if I will be able to stay, Dean,” and he knows Cas is crying, _sees_ it as tears flow down his jawbone. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up. Shut up, Cas.” He rocks his hips slowly now he still wrings a gasp from Cas with each thrust, buries his face in Castiel’s hair. His face is wet too, eyes stinging and his throat suddenly dry and constricted. “I don’t want to hear that anymore. Just fucking _stay,”_ he begs, mouthing the words into the nape of Castiel’s neck, hips snapping forward faster now, tipping Cas over the edge as he comes with a soft sigh, caught off guard—he clenches around Dean and he follows, and he can’t fight back the sound that makes its way past his lips, a groan and a dry sob.

He picks Cas up from where he’s slumped boneless, props him up against his own body. It’s tragic, really, the two of them crying, in each other’s orbits but on their own; the loneliest moment in the world.

Dean leaves Cas the keys to the car as he stumbles out first, back towards the bar. He’s wiping tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand as he walks back. When Castiel joins him five minutes later it already hadn’t happened; and yet Dean knows _this_ will get easier. Another night, another goodbye fuck, another string of prayers into the void, scraps of affection and abandonment. The Winchester way.

 

 


End file.
